bows and peppermint
by chiyonou
Summary: whether it be actions or words, they knew each other perfectly well. a collection of drabbles. a/n: fixed the ending of the first drabble
1. Chapter 1

His eyes are unyielding, no fault or waver in his loyal gaze.

He's not quite sure if the words 'lavender', or 'amethyst', or perhaps even 'wine' pinpoint the colour of her hair. But it is lovely, he'd give you that. Yes, that was the word. **_Lovely_.**

Fingers prompt and deft, those pale digits of hers lace together braids and braids of her own lilac hair and she pays attention to nothing else. Not the ravines and crisp creases lacerating the hem of her little black dress, nor the onslaught of spotlights that touch her every angle, and not even the dainty, inky black headband that seems to be slipping off her nodding head every second. It's only him who notices these _oh so_ minor details, though he thinks it is absolutely absurd on her part. She is the idol, the admired one, after all. She must always be what the phrase "absolutely flawless" means at all times, a darling facade of a role model for those hopeful youth. Yet a lopsided smile cracks his lips, because Yuuma knows she doesn't care about all that crap. If she did, it wouldn't be her. It wouldn't be Yukari. And if it wasn't her, he wouldn't be in love.

Oh, but he is.

Her eyes are dull, her actions repetitive, and her mouth tightly twisted into a light frown, somewhat sullen. Her staff await on her, from behind velvet curtains with titters and coaxes, desperate for her cooperation, and Yuuma quirks an eyebrow. They think she's a priss when she's really feigning ignorance. They think she's ill, perhaps a cold or the flu, and he thinks they're too innocent.

Dressed up, prim and proper, perfect from head to toe, _isn't she pretty?_

Yukari doesn't want to go just yet.

And knowing that, it keeps the smile in his face, wondering how long she would play at this game. Not for long, apparently, when she abruptly snaps up and dismisses her crew with a mutter of "I'll be ready in a minute or two", and like obedient children, they scatter. It presents to him an opportunity, and he seizes it.  
>And by that, he means standing up and striding over, acting as a prince charming as his arm tears hers away from her hairwork, softly. Yukari is frozen, paused but not speechless, but even then she has nothing to say. Everything in her expression soothes out, and in that serene moment, her smile is beautiful, beautiful and he feels as warm as he did the first time she had called his name. A sweet murmur, a personification of an embrace into sound. Yet as he continues to dote and adore her, a shrill, haughty laugh lilts up into the air. To others she'd be a witch, but her dulcet tones only bewitched him.<p>

"How lovely, isn't it? To be both an idol and a slave, a model for the youth and yet a prisoner all the same. I hate it so much, darling, and you don't even know." Eyes narrow, spiteful and saturated with wrath. Yukari scoffs, burning off an aura of such hostility that anyone would be reduced to an empty husk, devoid of response due to the sheer intimidation. This does not even touch Yumma at all, however. Though as speechless as he may be, only the solitary sound of crinkling persists, for he knew best not to add fuel to the fire.

"I'll see you later, Yukari." He pops a hard-candy into his mouth, nonchalant as ever. Dusting away her wispy, crimped bangs, he entwines his fingers into her braid and softly presses his lips onto hers, a five second heaven for him, slipping the candy into her mouth as he turns away.

"How unsanitary." Unamused and unreceptive, all she offers in reply is a roll of her eyes, yet he is not blind to the way her lips curve up after.  
>For once, the girl stands, and turning on her heels, she's aiming to leave. She's not ready yet, and he knows this as well.<p>

She fires at him a static glare, peach bleached lips pursed in a thin line. He answers in a lazy smirk and an expectant tone, amused.

"Taste?"

Hesitance binding her voice, she permits nothing but a whisper of three syllables.

"_Peppermint._"


	2. Chapter 2

**i. clothing.**

"Your clothes won't fit me." Stated bluntly, she almost scoffs, half-lidded eyes fluttering as eyelashes trickle with acidic rain and hints of salted tears. The droughts in the weeks before were merciless, but the tender yet rippling downpour is notably worse. She hates it and loves it, only because it is the thing that scuttles her here, in Yuuma's room with arms and legs crossed in her drenched hoodie.

"So?" He's blunt, as always, but her pitches are laced with needles of experience, and her comebacks are checkmate, razor-sharp.

"They're _ten times_ my size, you idiot," a playful push, "what if it's exposing?"

He chuckles. "All the better for me."

In ten seconds, she's hitting him with every painful solid thing she can get her hands on.

**ii. stockholm syndrome.**

Armed and adorned in an abundance of barbed choices of weapon, he's sharp- not like the way she speaks when she gets snappy at IA, but sharp in a literal sense. Of knives, pricks, needles, barbs, points, and that one sword that screams 'personal favourite', the danger she adores most is the bitter aftertaste of his sweet name slipping off her tongue. And of all the knife cutting risks, she has to chose the dullest tack of the drawer (her kidnapper himself, dolled up in an obnoxious pink hair and the rest completely uniform pitch black)

The captor himself is perplexed when fear is not prevalent in the light of her countenance. Soft, bleached, baby smooth, and the saturation of milk tea, her lips are a compliment of gradient roses, eyes a shocking neon pink in all contrast to everything.

He would like to say she was captivating, but no. That should be wrong.

The warmth that airbrushes the apples of his cheeks is wrong too, when he growls at her to hold tight when they flee from the rooftops of peaked buildings and she is obedient, too much, in fact, slender limbs wrapping around his lithe ones with ease and smoothness, feeling like a silk gauze.

Day after day, there is a dread in his mouth, because the more time that passes, the more those ticks and tocks bind their hearts together.

And that dread worsens, sours even, when at last, his hirer mutters, "Kill her."

But he is merely a tool, and this is an ordinary job like the rest; sword drawn, he is stealthy, behind her, and the blade rises with strained conviction but-

The girl whips around; her pigtails undergo the misfortune of loss as the razor barely, just barely slices them off like an axe to the bark of a tree, and when his eyes meet hers, he is so, so sorry.

"I love you." She whispers.

After that night, he can never erase the imagery of those blood stains on his equipment.


End file.
